


Stasis

by Lady_of_Ultramar



Category: Warhammer 40.000, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Chaos, Character Study, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Grimdark, Headcanon, Hope, How Do I Tag, I Don't Even Know, Introspection, It Gets Worse, Kinda, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, The Codex Astartes, The First Black Crusade, Timeline What Timeline, world building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:54:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29473551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_of_Ultramar/pseuds/Lady_of_Ultramar
Summary: It is the 41st Millennium, and in the grim darkness of the far future, no one in the Fortress of the Hera will credit the rumors, but the whispers run nonetheless. “The Primarch’s eyes open," they murmur, “Despite the stasis chamber’s paralyzing might and his horrific injuries, Roboute Guilliman witnesses his son’s deeds.” After all, it is common knowledge; “To be favored by the Primarch's gaze is to be set apart, to have a greater role to play in the gathering storm.”OrRoboute Guilliman told his sons he remembered nothing between the bite of Fulgrim’s blade and his resurrection. He lied.
Comments: 27
Kudos: 58





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for 40k level violence, and the psychological effects of waking up trapped in a stasis field.

_The Pain hits him first, crumpling him to the dirt as faces crowd around the narrowing well of his vision. Aeonid Theil, helmet cast aside to reveal a tear-streaked face; Marius Gage, frozen in horror, until a strike from an unseen enemy almost takes his head off, and he turns to defend himself, his brother, and his lord._

_“They mourn me already,” Guilliman realizes. “I am dead. I cannot die now, not now. There is too much to do. Too much, too much. What will Russ do without me, or the Khan? Too much…”_

_Theil screams for an Apothecary, as someone tugs at his ruined breastplate, ripping the ornate gorget free with a squeal of rending metal. A white gauntlet flashes past his dimming eyes, as the cool relief of morpha pushes back the exquisite burn of Fulgrim's poison for a breath, but can not stop it and the pain surges back anew. His pulse slows. Colored spots whirl around his eyes._

_“Father” he whispers, around the poisoned blood that is frothing at his lips and at the gash in his throat. “Father, who will guide them now?”_

_“What is he saying” cries an anguished voice. 'What does he say?'_

_“Please”, Guilliman thinks. “Save me”_

_His hearts quiver one last time, drawing themselves in for a further beat that will not come. The voices of his sons sound far away._

_His hearts relax._

_The fountain of blood at his throat slackens, then ceases altogether._

_Darkness envelops him._

_He stands at a precipice. A roaring, terrifying sea of souls haunted by the laughing of mad gods churns all around, red and ugly._

_There is a cold, golden brilliance, The roaring sea vanishes. Sorrow engulfs his soul and Roboute Guilliman is no more._

\----- 

The first time he wakes, awareness comes in a burst of white-hot agony. He tries to scream, to lash out against it, as if movement could drive the pain away, but his limbs remain unresponsive, and his lungs are empty. He cannot move, cannot scream. 

He has been engineered to be unable to fear, but even still, something very close to panic grips him, and then darkness is pouring over him again, and he knows nothing more. 

\----- 

The second time he wakes is much like the first, pain clawing at him as he struggles to make sense of his new reality. 

He is pinned in place, unable to do as much as twitch, and something cold and twisting moves in him as his limbs refuse to obey his commands. It’s a new experience, and an entirely unwelcome one. 

“A stasis field” he realizes. Theoretical: He's been frozen in a stasis field’s protective chamber as a last desperate gamble by his sons to save his life. They would only have done that if there was no cure for the poison in his veins. Practical: If the stasis field fails, he will die. 

He is trapped. 

His breath wants to hitch, but he isn’t breathing, his hearts feel as if they must pound double time, but that would require them to be beating in the first place. A shiver needs to run down his spine, but his nerves have been frozen. All that remains is his mind, spinning and spinning as it tries to relay signals to his unresponsive body. 

They should have let him die. Better that, then the purgatory he finds himself in. 

Darkness returns before the horror can truly sink in. 

\----- 

The third time he wakes is gentler, awareness and pain filtering in gradual waves, as a familiar sound permeates the darkness. Older and frailer than when he’d heard it last, but it would take more than mere time to make him forget his mother’s voice. 

“...Gage is doing as well as he always has and your sons and realm flourish under his rule,” Tarasha Eutun is saying, “Trade with nearby sectors increases, and we are slowly erasing the damage done by Horus’s Tantrum. I hardly dare to say it, but your realm is at peace.” 

At peace? He can barely comprehend those two short words, has no frame of reference for them, has never truly experienced them. He was made for war, made for conflict, created to destroy civilizations and then build them up better than they were before. He has dreamed of peace, wished for a time when his talents can be put to better a purpose than endless battle. Now he does not know if he should be glad it has finally come, or angry that he can have no part in it. In the end, all he feels is relief, at least his mother can enjoy the security he fought to give her. 

She chatters on, detailing the scrabbling and petty feuds of his court, and how promising the youngest neophytes are, and- 

“Oh! I almost forgot! Gage finally declared Aeonid Theil the Captain of the First Company.” She laughs, almost as if she can sense his surprise. “I know what you’d think, but Theil has grown up since you were shut away. He isn’t the irreverent sergeant who stole your swords and collected demerits and censures as if they were honors to be won, he’s truly come into his own. We all knew he’d be Gage’s choice as second in command after Caspean was killed. For all their bickering, they work well together; I think Theil’s optimism keeps Gage’s pessimism at bay.” 

“Theil still holds onto the hope that we'll find a miracle for you in my lifetime, but I fear that will soon come to its end. I am old now.” She trails off and he can hear the hum of a hoverchair, and knows she speaks the truth. His mother had sworn she’d rather be dead than ride about in one of those infernal machines. Perhaps his sons will find the cure before he loses her. 

“I miss you, my precious boy, I miss you more than I can say.” she whispers, “ I love you Roboute, never forget that I…” she trails off, voice catching in the way he knows means she is trying not to cry. 

He wants so badly to go to her, wipe her tears and swear that he’s here, that he’s alright. He strains futility against the stasis field pinning him in place, knowing it’s useless but past caring. His mother needs him. 

As if summoned by his struggle, the darkness returns, nipping at the edges of his thoughts as he forces himself to stay awake. He bent space and time once in order to reach her in the aftermath of Kurze’s attacks, breaking the laws of the universe to comfort her. He‘ll do it again. 

“Be brave my precious boy, we shall not meet again in this world, but never doubt my-” 

His eyes snap open. An impossibility made possible by need. 

Whatever she was about to say is cut off by a startled gasp as she presses her face to the glass face of his stasis chamber. She whispers something, but the dark is pulling, stronger than before, and he tries to smile, but the field is too strong, and he hopes she understands, because-. 

The dark takes him. 

\----- 

_Tarasha Euten will swear to her dying day that her son opened his eyes for her. No one will believe her, of course. It is a well-known fact that no one, not even a primarch, is conscious while in the death grip of a Stasis Field Chamber, much less able to move. The word of one old woman, no matter how well respected, will not change that._

\-----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I debated with myself a lot before finally deciding to post this. Stasis is the first story that I've felt confident enough in to even consider sharing, but there comes a point were you just gotta take take the plunge and publish something, so here I am.
> 
> Please try to keep in mind that I'm still very much a novice when it comes to writing, so any constructive critcism/critique is welcome (and let's be honest, desperately needed). 
> 
> Last but certainly not least, a massive thanks to my wonderful beta Spooky-Cadet!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some realizations are made, Aeonid Theil has some things to say, and a Crusade is coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning for Stasis Chambers and being trapped in them.

\----- 

The fourth time he wakes, the pain is less, faded to a choking ache, that, while not easily ignored, can at least be pushed to the corners of his mind while he focuses on opening his eyes. 

The Darkness rises up at once to stop his efforts, and a voice in the back of his mind, one that sounds suspiciously like the Red King of Prospero, reminds him that his task is impossible, that the stasis field’s might will prove too much even for him. He ignores the voice, after all, he defied the chamber once, and he can do it again. It may take time, but he is nothing if not patient, and he has nothing better to do. He will do it again. And so, slowly, ever so slowly, it works. 

He cracks his eyes open to find that he isn’t alone in the grand marble hall of the Temple of Corrections. It takes him longer than he cares to admit to recognize the pacing form of Aeonid Theil, for his friend is older, much older, than when last he’d seen him. 

He should have known to expect that; of course time has passed since he was trapped; judging by the fact that Theil’s once black hair has faded to a dull gray, and the deep wrinkles that crease his friend's face, it has been far longer than he dares to contemplate. 

But even more unsettling, is the look on Theil’s face, the tired slump of his shoulders, and the blacked scorch marks decorating his armor, they speak to utter hopelessness, desperation, and uncertainty that does not fit with the man he remembers. 

Theil had always been the voice of optimism. Even when they had held the line against the worst the Warmaster could unleash against them. When his friend’s homeworld burned and they faced the combined fleets of two fallen brothers despite being outnumbered ten to one. Even when he ignored his friend’s counsel and left to fight his daemonic brother. Even when he lay dying, Theil had never given up hope. 

What has his friend endured to change that? 

He doesn’t want to know the answer. 

“That’s not even the worst of it, you know?” Theil says as he paces before the stasis chamber. “The Nobility’s games are nothing compared to the dark whispers from the Eye. Reports from Cadia indicate that the Traitor Legions are reforming. They’re massing for a war the likes of which we haven't seen since the Hersey, and this time we don’t have the might of the legions to back us.” 

His friend laughs mirthlessly, “Funny, isn’t it? You thought splitting the legions would prevent another Heresy, but without them, we’re scattered and defenseless easy targets.” His tone turns cold, “Billions will curse your name before this is finished, and they’ll be right to.” 

He’s taken aback by Theil’s vitriol. The decision to split the legion into chapters had been one that he’d agonized over for years before implementing. The Legions were powerful, yes, but they were unwieldy and put too much power in the hands of too few men. If their leaders fell, the Legions would follow and the Imperium would descend into another war they could not afford to fight. Chapters were smaller, more mobile, and their command structure was spread among more men. If one leader fell, then the rest could intervene, stopping the corruption before the chapter was lost. 

He had made that decision knowing that the unity of the legions would be destroyed. The grand armies of marines would be gone forever, their unstoppable power lost to history. He had been so sure that there would be no need for them, that the traitors' pitiful remnants could be easily swept away, never to rise again. He had gambled with what, at the time, had been sure odds. Theil had known that, hadn’t he? 

But now... if what Theil says is true, if this coming war is even half as terrible as Horus’s Rebellion, then his decision has damned the very Imperium he sought to save. The scattered chapters will face the renewed might of the Traitor Legions and, bar a miracle, the tides of battle will wash them away. Cold horror settles in his gut, his theoretical has fallen short. He gambled with lives and lost, so now the cold practical: humanity will pay the price for his mistakes. What has he done? 

"We lost Gage." Theil says unexpectedly, jarring him from his self-pity. 

"He died well," his friend continues as if he hadn't just announced the death of his Chapter Master. "With his sword buried in the guts of the Deamon who killed him. But he’s gone all the same. So now I’m the only man in the Thirteenth who can say that he knew you personally because Gage is dead because you split the legions and we didn’t have the men to get him out and hold our position!" 

"I’m sorry, that was unfair.” His friend says when he has mastered himself. “You did what you thought was best, and perhaps it will prove to be so.” 

He is suddenly aware that Theil is clad in an unfamiliar set of Terminator armor, and bears the heraldry and sigils of the Chapter Master. How had he not noticed before? 

“But we're not ready. Not for what's coming.” 

Theil sighs bitterly, then looks up. Their eyes meet for an instant, then his friend winces and turns away. 

“We may be damned, but we will fight to the end. The Ultramarines will walk unflinching to our deaths just as you did, all those years ago.” 

He was a fool, confronting Fulgrim as he did, his sons shouldn't strive for that, surely there is another option. 

“Chapter Master?” A marine in the livery of the Honor Guard stands at the entrance of his hall. 

Theil turns, shoulders straight and a half-smile tugging at his lip, the picture of confident leadership. “Aye?” he asks, and his friend’s voice holds no trace of the despair he had vented. 

“It is time.” The words hold a crushing finality. 

Theil nods and with one last look at his stasis chamber, turns and strides toward the doors which fall shut behind him. 

He sits in silence, worrying over the fate of his sons and the guilt of past actions until the darkness returns to sweep him into oblivion. 

\----- 

_Chapter Master Aeonid Theil will not have the time to tell anyone that he saw his Primarch’s eyes open. He’ll try to convince himself that the sight was a vision brought on by fatigue and grief, or stress and wishful thinking, nevertheless, it gives him hope, and the strength he needs to face what is coming. The war that will be known as the First Black Crusade sweeps across the Galaxy, Abbadon the Despolier’s forces stream out from the Eye of Terror to wreak havoc, horror, and untold suffering. They are stopped at the fortress world of Cadia, but the price is high, almost more than the Imperium can pay._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heh, so funny story, I wasn't panning for Theil to show up, but he decided that he had some things to say, so who was I to argue? And for the record, the Codex Astartes is a great book, but it was written for an Imperium at peace, not for the Grimdarkness of the Far Future. 
> 
> Big Thanks to everyone who commented and gave kudos. You're all amazing and your support means so much! 
> 
> Please try to keep in mind that I'm still very much a novice when it comes to writing, so any constructive critcism/critique is welcome (and let's be honest, desperately needed).
> 
> Last but certainly not least, a massive thanks to my wonderful beta Spooky-Cadet!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a funeral, a terrible decision is (almost) made, and things get worse, again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning for canonical character death, grief, thoughts of bloody revenge, and minor Chaotic influences.

The Fifth time he wakes, he outright ignores the instinctual panic and whispers of impossibility that accompany awakening in this half-life and concentrates on defying the Stasis Chamber long enough to force himself fully awake. 

It’s far easier this time, and he takes in the sight before him with wide eyes. His halls are filled with Ultramarines. For one brief instant, he is absurdly grateful that his decision to split the legions hasn't resulted in disaster. 

Despite it all, his sons still endure. 

Then the sound of a funeral dirge reaches his ears and he notices how his hall has been draped in black. Realizes that despite the perfect, unmoving attention his sons stand at he cannot see a single set of armor that is not damaged in some way, large cracks, and the pockmarks of bolt shells marring the sea of blue ceremite. The men wearing the armor are in little better condition. Most are wounded, and even those who are unscathed bear the look of men who have seen horrors that men were not made to see. 

War has come. He knows, almost by instinct, that the new war that Theil foretold has come and his sons fare badly in it. 

He watches as a chaplain, standing between him and the bier, loudly proclaims the heroic deeds of a warrior who “fought from Ultramar to Terra at the Primarch’s side, and who finally fell in a glorious battle against the Enemies of Humanity.” 

He wonders offhandedly if he knew the marine whom they mourn, but he knows he didn’t, Theil had said that he was the last. That he…he... 

The Chaplain moves from between the stasis chamber and the bier, revealing the man upon it, and though he knows to expect it, seeing the body somehow makes it worse. Aeonid Theil is dead, his friend is gone. 

He wishes the darkness would take him, save him from the terrible sight, but it fails to appear. 

This is his fault, if he hadn’t split the legions, if he hadn’t blunted the teeth and broken the back of the Imperial War Machine, Theil might have lived. 

“Return to Macragge, Aeonid Theil, Son of Guilliman,” the Chaplain solemnly intones, beginning the ancient funeral rite. He finds himself listening despite himself; the familiar words a strange comfort in his grief. 

“Walk the Gardens of Locastra. Climb Gallan’s Rock, and know that, like the rebel consul himself, all traitors are punished. We shall be that instrument of punishment here and like the rock, we shall remain unmoved and unbroken.” 

So it was treachery that ended his friend’s life. Betrayal at the hands of someone Theil trusted implicitly. The Chaplain would not have invoked the cursed name of Macragge's greatest traitor for anything less. 

Another son, another brother, has turned his back on the Imperium’s ideals and cemented his fall from grace with the blood of a man who trusted him. 

His adopted father, Konnor, and the rebel consul, Gallan. His brothers, Ferrus and Fulgrim, Horus and Sangunious. His sons, Theil and the unknown traitor. 

History is repeating itself. 

He won’t let it. He’s lost enough family. 

The bastard who killed Theil had better find some hole to cower in because there is nowhere in the galaxy that they can hide. Son of his or not, he’s going to hunt that rat down and- 

No, no he isn’t. He can’t. The Stasis Field. 

Rage boils up behind his eyes, as the paralyzing field stops his struggles as if they were nothing, stifling the screams that build in his mind. How dare this thing, this hunk of metal and ancient technology defy him? How dare it prevent justice from being served? Hold him back from exacting vengeance for his friend’s, his son’s death? How dare it prevent him from giving vent to the fury that rips through him? Stop him from obliterating all in his path until he can has the traitor's skull in his hands and he can crush the bastard in a spray of blood for the bloo- 

“No.” The words echo in his mind, a blaze of golden radiance, all at once perfectly familiar and utterly alien. “You are not the Slave Lord of the Red Sands. You will not repeat his failures.” 

His rage vanishes like a puff of smoke, leaving behind only empty grief and the harsh realization of what his loss of control almost cost him, cost the Imperium. How close he came to following his brothers. Throne of Terra, what was that? 

“You understand then?” the voice observes; it isn’t a question. “How close you came to the abyss? Control yourself, Lord of Ultramar. I cannot afford to lose another of you to the Ruinous Powers. Guard yourself, My Son. For there shall be more trials to come, but you must never submit. Our Imperium yet has need of you.” 

“Father, did I-?” He begins to think, but before he can even formulate the rest of the question the golden glow is gone and he is alone with his grief and the knowledge of what he almost fell prey to. 

He wrenches his mind away from what he almost did, concentrating on his sons and their observances. He owes that much and more to Theil. 

“Find peace in the plunging falls of Hera’s Crown and watch the sunset over the fortress of our father,” The Chaplain intones, “Your fight is over, Chapter Master. The Primarch has asked all he can of you. Wait there, about the temple's halls and monuments- for one day we must all follow where you lead.” 

He wonders if he can. He hopes he can. Prays he can meet his brothers, his sons, his Mother, his Father, and all those he has lost, wherever it is that humanity goes when they die. He doubts he will. 

The Chaplain finishes the ceremony, and the service ends in respectful silence. The Ultramarines filter quietly out of the hall, leaving him alone with the body and his grief. Time passes, the shadows thicken, and still he sits wondering at the empty unfairness of the galaxy. 

As the dawn breaks, the darkness returns and he lets it pull him under into blank thoughtlessness with something akin to relief. At least the darkness gives him respite from the galaxy’s cruelty. 

\------ 

_Some Ultramarines will wonder at the fury in their Primarch’s eyes; others at the guilt and the grief. The Librarians will puzzle at the palpable sense of rage that for a few terrible moments emanates from their Lord’s stasis chamber, only to be abruptly replaced by horror and revulsion. Most will scoff at the whispers, dismiss the sight as nothing more than a trick of the light or their brothers’ overactive imaginations. All will wonder, and the whispers will run._

_\-----_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, Huge Thanks to everyone who's commented/given kudos. You're all amazing.
> 
> Second off, Please try to keep in mind that I'm still very much a novice when it comes to writing, so any constructive criticism/critique is welcome (and let's be honest, desperately needed). Please don't be shy. I need all the help I can get!
> 
> Last but certainly not least, a massive thanks to my wonderful beta Spooky-Cadet!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things get a bit worse before they get a bit better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning for Depression, Loneliness, and Grief

The next time he awakens, he recognizes no one, and he knows with a sense keener than sight that everyone he ever knew is gone. 

Russ, Jaghati, Rogal, Corvus, Vulkan, Lion, Ferrus, Sanguinius. His loyal brothers; all killed or missing. All presumed dead. 

The Traitors, Angron, Logar, Fulgrim, Kurze, Alpharius Omegon, Mortarian, Magnus, and Horus. Also his brothers, also dead or else twisted into inhuman horrors such that it would be better if they had died. 

His lord and sire, The Emperor of Mankind, trapped on his Golden Throne, sustained in perpetual agony by the souls of thousands of sacrificed innocents. 

His sons, Caspean, Gage, Theil, Dolor, Auguston, and all the countless others who marched to their deaths at his command. 

His people, lost in a hundred wars across the stars, dead on Monarchia, on Calth, on Arrigataon, during the Shadow Crusade, and the Iron Cage, on Thessala, and a thousand others. 

His mother, Tarasha Euten, lost to time and her own mortality. 

He is all that’s left. An unquiet vestige of a great and terrible past lingering long after his time, little better than a bloody corpse. 

There is nothing for him here. Nothing tying him to the fortress save his duty to his sons and to his people. A duty that he is incapable of carrying out from the inside of his stasis chamber. 

His bouts of consciousness become erratic. Without an anchor in the living world, his wakings come in fits, and starts. Short bursts of awareness, immediately swallowed up by the crushing expanse of darkness, or hours of silent watching with no relief in sight. Time is passing between awakenings; he knows this but he has no way of measuring how much save by watching, and even that is unreliable. 

He opens his eyes to a young warrior, blinks, and that same man stands before him a sergeant or a captain, sometimes a chapter master. Sometimes there is no one he recognizes. They live out their lives in service to the Imperium, they fight for his honor and in his father’s name, and he must be content to watch. A silent presence at the edges of their lives. Time passes for them, but he remains unchanging. They grow old, he does not. He almost hates them for it. 

At first he tries to learn their names and stories, but there are so many, and eventually, he loses track. Enhanced memory or not, his sons blur together in a haze of faces and voices that he cannot hope to differentiate. 

It’s too much and he retreats behind his mental barricades, walling himself off from his sons and the inevitable heartache. They will be dead the next time he wakes, why should he remember them? They are strangers in familiar armor, nothing more. He can’t acknowledge them, not if he means to stay sane. 

He is supposed to lead them, to protect and rule them. He was created to be a light in the darkness, a beacon of hope, the Avenging Son; who would help restore humanity to the Glory of the Dark Age. He was meant to be an example to mankind. Yet here he sits, throat ripped open, blood drenching the ruin of his breastplate, and the poison from Fulgrim’s blade burning under his skin. 

It occurs to him that it would be better if the darkness would take him permanently, to cut him off from reality completely. Punish him for his failures, let him die. 

Theoretical: The people of the Imperium believe his brothers were unstoppable, heroes and saviors in equal measure. His people remember the proud leaders who led humanity at their height. They believe the lie that nothing can stand against a true Prince of the Imperium. 

His survival threatens that belief, proving that Primarch can fail. His broken body shatters the facade of inhuman strength, the legend of his brothers’ prowess. For if a true son of the Emperor of Mankind can fall against the forces that beset the Imperium, what chance does the common man have? 

Better he had died as a martyr, than live, trapped as he is with no chance of healing. His sons shouldn’t have to see their father frozen in agony, with his last breath still escaping his lungs. His people shouldn’t know that their Lord failed in his duty to protect them from the ravages of the Dark Gods. The Imperium should remember his brother as heroes to aspire to, not as the broken men they were. They must believe that their heroes are just that, heroes. 

Practical: He shouldn’t be on display for all to see. His failures shouldn’t be allowed to crush his peoples’ ideals. 

His sons should have let him die. Why didn’t they let him die? Why won’t they let him die? 

“Please let me die.” 

... 

... 

Theoretical: They hold out hope. 

He isn’t sure where the idea comes from, but he clings to it like a drowning man. 

The men in his halls, the marines who claim his lineage and wear his heraldry. The sons he has never met. The strangers with his blood in their veins. The men he overlooks as he stares out with unseeing eyes over the halls that were once his home. 

They hold on to the hope that he lost so long ago. 

It may be that he will never be healed, it is likely even. It is the cold reality that he will stay trapped in the stasis field, frozen in time until the power conduits that feed the Chamber are damaged enough to allow the field to collapse. Then he will die, choking on his own blood as Fulgrim’s poison does its deadly work. 

But it doesn’t matter. 

His sons believe he will live. They whole-heartedly believe that someday Roboute Guilliman, Primarch of the Ultramarines, Lord of Ultramar, and Prince of the Imperium will be healed of his wounds, rise from his tomb and once again lead them into glory. All they have to do is keep fighting, to keep holding the line until he does. 

It is that thought that sparks something in him. His sons are counting on the fact that he will one day return. His is a driving force to their aims. He is the reason they struggle as hard as they do, the reason they fight. As long as he lives they have a touchstone from which they can orient themselves. He has a responsibility to them and to the people they protect. They haven’t abandoned their duty, so how dare he? 

Only in Death does Duty End. 

He isn’t dead, therefore his duty hasn’t ended. What more reason does he need to keep holding on? 

\----- 

_No one notices the change, although many hold the Primarch’s stasis chamber in a bit more than awed reverence. They all know he’ll wake up. Every soul in the Fortress of Hera knows it's only a matter of time, and so the rumors persist and the traditions are upheld._

__

_“The Primarch chooses the heroes of the Chapter, honors those destined for some great glory, for his eyes see far and his judgment is divine. We must be ready.”_

__

__

__

\-----

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, Huge Thanks to everyone who's commented/given kudos. You're all amazing.
> 
> Second off, To those of those of you wondering if Stasis will be an AU... I'm not sure. At the moment I'm trying to write scenes that could have happened, but either didn't or were never shown. I imagine there is room for an AU there and as this story progresses it might become a full AU, but for now, it's up to your interpretation whether or not Stasis is following canon. If you have an opinion feel free to leave it in the comments, I'd love to hear it. 
> 
> Third off, Please try to keep in mind that I'm still very much a novice when it comes to writing, so any constructive criticism/critique is welcome (and let's be honest, desperately needed). Please don't be shy. I need all the help I can get!
> 
> Last but certainly not least, a massive thanks to my wonderful beta Spooky-Cadet!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a Beast makes war, the Imperium has a hard time of it, and the High Lords are their usual selves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No trigger warnings save for a bit of angst, (but you should be expecting that at this point)

Time continues to pass. His sons continue to fight, continue to die. He continues to watch. 

It's easier now in a way, he doesn't know any of these men personally. It doesn't hurt as much. He isn’t as attached. 

Still he endures, he has a duty and he will do it, his sons are counting on him. 

Only in death does Duty End. That is all. 

So his half-life continues, watching as life in his halls moves on, and trying to fit the bits and pieces of overheard conversations into some semblance of continuity. 

... 

“Brothers! The Orks are massing at Ulannor, we shall soon be called to battle against their filth!” 

“You’re a fool, Vanius,” a sergeant scoffs. ‘The might of the Imperial Fists, not to mention the Astra Militarum, will be more than sufficient to deal with this so-called Beast.” 

He’s inclined to agree, the orks haven’t been a threat since the Triumph, and Rogal’s sons won’t take kindly to the Ultramarines, or any of his sons for that matter, butting in where they aren’t needed. Not after the Iron Cage and their disagreement over the Codex. 

Vanius it seems, will have to find his fight elsewhere. 

… 

“The Imperial Fists were destroyed almost to a man, and multiple crusade fleets decimated. Several sectors are under threat of collapse or invasion. Holy Terra is under siege, even here in Ultramar we are under attack. We were utterly blindsided! This can’t be the work of a mere Warboss…” The Chapter Master paces as he speaks, radiating anger and worry. 

“No, Sir. I doubt it, Sir.” 

Cold horror fills him. The Fists, the stalwart sons of Dorn have been slaughtered? It's a mercy at least that his brother is long dead, the loss of his sons would have broken Rogal beyond repair. 

And Terra? Under siege? What has happened? How has that happened? Has the Imperial war effort fallen so far as to expose humanity's birthplace to the ravages of the xeno? What of his father? If the Emperor's psyche and the Astronomicon fail, the darkness of Old Night shall return. Humanity will be doomed to a slow extinction at the hands of xenos, chaos, and worse. 

The unnamed Chapter Master is right, something far more dangerous than a mere Ork warboss is at work here. Whatever this thing is, it's far too organized and far too cunning to be another greenskin brute. It calls to mind the scattered, fragmentary, nearly mythic, records of the War in Heaven and the Xenos horrors known as Krorks. 

He’d dismissed those accounts as wild exaggeration and fantasy when they’d first been told to him. After all, the tale was purported to be of a period before mankind had even evolved, and his only source, an Eldar Farseer of the craft world Ulthwé, had had plenty of reason to lie to him. Now he isn’t so sure. 

… 

“Is it true Sir? Has the Lord Vulcan returned?” 

Vulcan? He lives? His brother is alive? The Lord of Drake had been assumed dead in the aftermath of the Heresy, but his brother had survived the impossible before, and perhaps he was too quick to assume Vulcan was gone. 

“Aye lad, rejoice, a Primarch fights alongside us one more,” 

He isn’t the last. Vulkan truly lives. Perhaps there is a chance that Vulkan can...no he can’t afford to think about that. 

The scout makes a face, half excited, half something he cannot identify, envy perhaps. “I wish it was Father.” 

The sergeant cuffs him lightly about the ears, “We’re blessed to have any loyal son of the Emperor. We have a chance now, and we didn’t before. Remember that, and be grateful.” 

He is. 

… 

“He did it! The Lord Vulcan triumphed over the greenskin menace! The Beast is dead! Terra is free! The Siege is lifted!” 

The cheers are loud and joyous, but he can see not all partake in the celebrations. 

“It's not over,” the new Chapter Master, a man he thinks is named Agnatho, mutters, “Not until Ullanor is destroyed, the xenos culled, and the Imperium stabilized and our losses restored.” 

“No, not until Lord Vulcan’s sacrifice is avenged,” a Captain agrees. 

He wonders what Vulcan sacrificed; hopes it wasn’t his life, but considering this is Vulcan, his soft-hearted, valiant brother, it probably was. 

At least Vulcan took the Beast out with him; at least their people are safe from the foul xenos once more. That alone makes his brother’s death worth something, if only just. 

… 

“Sarge, What do you mean by, ‘There’s six more of them?” a battle brother asks. 

He wonders briefly what there are six more of, then decides he probably doesn’t want to know. … 

“The latest decree from Terra, Lord Agnathio.” 

The Chapter Master takes the proffered dataslate and scans it, eyebrows rising as he does. “Is this accurate?” he asks the serf. 

“Yes, my Lord,” she replies. “A forgery of the High Lord’s seal cannot possibly be so precise, this missive came from Terra, there can be no doubt. Why? Is something wrong?” 

“Indeed,’ is the growled response, “There has been a coup. Grand Master Vangorich has seized power and had the other reigning High Lord and other ranking members of the Senatorum Imperialis disposed of.” 

A coup? On Terra? Hasn’t there been enough upheaval fighting the orks? Why hasn’t anyone prevented such abuses? 

Evidently the serf has the same question, “Disposed of? Surely Lord Commander Thane-” 

“Maximus Thane seems to approve. Or at least, he’s too busy rebuilding the Fists and overseeing the Crusade to stop the Grand Master from beheading the Imperium's entire civilian leadership. The fool, the Administratum, and the High Lords may be a pack of bureaucratic puppeteers and inbred politicians, but we need them to keep the Imperium stable. By giving in to his frustration, Vangorich just erased our best chance at rebuilding.” 

He can certainly sympathize with the desire to get rid of the High Lords. In his darker moments, before his entombment, he’d often contemplated how much easier it would be to rule and reform the Imperium without their interference. He’d never gone through with any of his ideas. He has no wish to become a tyrant, and even less desire to do so at the Imperium’s expense. Vangorich has no such qualms. 

“What are you going to do?” the serf asks. 

Agnathio’s reply is a bitter laugh, “I can’t do anything.” He says, “Not unless Thane decides to act against Vangorich. We can’t afford to alienate both the Grand Master of the Officio Assassinorum and the Lord Commander of the Imperium. Not if we expect to live to tell of our defiance.” 

It would seem that Malcador’s assassins are still causing problems, and they seem to have the tacit support of his successor. It's a powerful political block, and one that he knows from experience won’t be broken by anything less than internal strife. 

... 

“Thane finally did it. Vangoritch is dead, as are four hundred Astartes from the Imperial Fist, Halo Brethren, and Sable Sword Chapters, as well as an unknown number of Eversor Assassins.” 

Four hundred Astartes dead in order to remove one human tyrant from power, what a waste. 

“What do you think the Chapter Master will do?” 

“I do not know. Prepare yourself, brother, you will be needed.” 

… 

“What’s the best way to get politicians to do their jobs?” a chapter serf jokes. 

“I don’t know, what is it?” his companion tiredly asks. 

“Simple. You march to Terra, with an alliance of over fifty Chapter Masters to back you up. I guarantee by the time you leave there will be a working government instead of anarchy and twelve new High Lords of Terra.” 

“That’s not a joke, Pullo. That's what Chapter Master Agnathio did.” 

It's a blunt and somewhat inelegant way of playing politics, and he’s sure some would scoff at the crudeness of the power play, but he won’t. What wins the fight wins the fight. If that means marching into the Senatorum Imperialis and putting an end to the infighting and backstabbing by force, that is what should be done. 

\----- 

_With so much of the War of the Best spent on the defensive, teetering on the edge of a knife, there should be no time for anyone to notice the Primarch’s attention, but they do. The Primarch’s gaze seeks out those who are worthy, grants them hope and courage in the darkest of days, when the attack moons blot the sun from the skies above Maccragge and word comes that Terra is ready to fall. He is there. He is constant. He directs them onto the path of glory._

_\-----_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this might me the happiest chapter I've written, the Orks must be getting to me. 
> 
> First off, Huge Thanks to everyone who's commented/given kudos. You're all amazing and I love to see what you think about this thing I have made.
> 
> Secondly, as a warning, the next couple of chapters might be a bit delayed. School is going into overdrive in preparation for midterms and spring break, so the time I have to write is shrinking. I'll do my best to stay on schedule with a new chapter every Monday, but be warned, they may be a few days late. Whatever happens, I'm not giving up on Stasis, so at least you don't have to worry about that. 
> 
> Thirdly, I have never read the War of the Beast Series and am relying on the Wiki and Lexicanium for information, hopefully, I didn't mess anything up too badly. If I did, please tell me so I can fix it. 
> 
> As usual, please try to keep in mind that I'm still very much a novice when it comes to writing, so any constructive criticism/critique/lore correction is welcome (and let's be honest, desperately needed). Please don't be shy. I need all the help I can get!
> 
> Last but certainly not least, a massive thanks to my wonderful beta Spooky-Cadet!


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